


Snippets Side B: Arc Details of a Certain Conniving Conman

by illogicalus



Series: Monster Hunter Mob [1]
Category: Ao no Exorcist | Blue Exorcist
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Gen, Growing Up, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illogicalus/pseuds/illogicalus
Summary: From traitor to conman, the road he walks is fraught with the unforgettable trauma of the past and the mundane troubles of the present.





	Snippets Side B: Arc Details of a Certain Conniving Conman

**Author's Note:**

> This is the snippet compilation and acting prequel to the story 'Monster Hunter Mob'. Actual main story will be uploaded in 2019.

.1 

(the records are scratched in tape side b, gouges that broke into the hardcover plastic that, when compared to side a, makes the skittery scratches that line it seem pristine)

If all the world’s a stage, then this particular act of his life had to be a comedy of errors. The Shakespeare plays he studied back in his simplistic middle school life seems to be coming back with a vengeance, the dead spirit of this playwright determined to make a tragic fallacy out of the cascade of bad choices he wrought upon himself. 

Yukio sits, boxed within the sterile, concrete walls of his mind, and wonders. The symmetric walls offer him no peace, but instead, his thoughts are vague and wander around in this brief reprieve he’s been granted. Deep within the representation of Illuminati experiment rooms, there is no one bothering him and his thoughts therefore, roam around as trapped prey animals, clawing at the endless white landscape in a futile effort to escape. 

As he witnesses this, he realises that this is his brief moment of lucidity. Sanity is few and far in between in this sterile environment, where researchers stare back with fanatic, glassy eyes and the only sound he hears are the machines that whir back and forth in a demented version of a rhythm. He vaguely remembers everything and nothing. His brain outlines the continuous progression of vague, blurry outlines and blank spaces where his recollections should be. 

(His past loops into itself, the stream of images of emotions far gone is unimportant now and forever)

Time is relative, here. There is nothing to keep track of the cycle of days flowing past, hours and minutes trickle into the cracks of his psyche. It feels like an eternity has passed in this vague bubble of rage, pain and apathy. The memories of his life before, the desperation his stomach twisted into at the last few days of his past life is nothing compared to the endless misery he is bespelled under in here. He curses his past decisions - so blind by powers of power and direction, and now where is he? Turned into a glorified lab rat and fallen from grace, plunging into the depths of failed experimentation. 

He is useless now. Worth little and nothing, just because of a chance dictated at birth, born weak and dying a weak man. A trail of dead bodies left in wake of his pity tantrum and everyone he (loved) cared for dead and turned away in disgust. His mind is cannibalising itself and there is no one to turn to. 

He is alone. And soon, he won’t exist enough to feel the loneliness gnawing away at his being. Even now, he is clinical, cold and apathetic enough to just watch the pilfering of his mind, structures crumbling and memories scattered into the four winds. 

What a twisted way of saving him. In the end, Lucifer really did keep his promise. 

It’s funny. 

In the face of the ultimate destruction of his complete being, he snorts. Then the snort evolves into a grotesque facsimile of itself - turning into an ugly laugh and breaking down into teary chuckles. God (do not take his name in vain, whispers his dead father), this is hilarious. A bad joke from last week’s (month, year, what does it matter?) square jump, but the tsukkomi never comes to straighten this fuckup. How could he? He is stuck in his disintegrating mind, looking beyond the sterile walls and staring at the burning landscape. 

The sterile walls are what disintegrates last. He peeks out of the caricature walls and onto the burning monastery, smiling. It is a herculean effort in of itself, his lips taut against his will, lips chapped as he moulds his face against its will. His face feels like hardened clay, too set in its deformed ways. 

Okumura Yukio looks beyond the cracks in his psyche, walks out of the plaster walls of the antiseptic rooms and slides through the memories of his childhood memories, tinder to blue flames. 

He sees, and realises it for the long awaited opportunity that it is. It takes an eternity, but time is always relative in the mind. There is still a big part of himself that wants to lie down next to his home and burn along with it. It almost consumes him with the desire to just give up. But,

But. 

He toes the blackened ground with a nudge. Giving up now is just an insult. His base is... made of sterner stuff than this. 

Give his English teacher his best regards and a nice, hearty fuck you. Besides, he always hated Shakespeare anyway. 

7.


End file.
